


To Be Governed

by pantomimicry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, Drug Abuse, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Underage, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4249881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantomimicry/pseuds/pantomimicry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mycroft dreams of Sherlock imprisoned behind a wall of glass. His brother’s hair touches his shoulders in long endless curls.  His eyes are icy, uncharacteristically blue. Though the cell is full of shattered furniture a vase of yellow tulips remains intact, tucked into one pale corner. Mycroft throws his weight against the glass, but it doesn’t give. He bloodies his hands clawing at the walls. Sherlock watches him impassively. Mycroft’s immaculate suit is ruined, stained with sweat and blood.  Inside the glass, Sherlock has righted himself and the cell. The vase of yellow tulips is upended at Sherlock’s feet."</p><p>Set directly after "A Study in Pink".</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Governed

_Sherlock is four, and when no one is looking he holds Mycroft’s hand; he sits in his lap, and he reads to Mycroft from his favorite books._

Fourteen paces down the steps of his flat.

Mycroft’s townhouse is a ten-minute cab ride from Baker Street.

Five steps up to the front door. Two knocks, two beats of silence, two knocks, two beats of silence. He lets himself inside. It’s a quarter to three in the morningand still he has to wait for Mycroft. God knows where he is, what governments he is toppling in the name of Queen and Country.

Mycroft’s study is lit by a combination of street lamps and moonlight. He settles at his brother’s desk; he doesn’t bother to go through the contents. Mycroft is notoriously boring and careful; there is only one drawer unlocked: a fountain pen, several expensive sheets of stationary, a lighter-no cigarettes. Sherlock can’t be trusted.

Headlights in the window. Ah, finally. Tires on gravel. Cheerful, “goodnight, Sir.” The latch catches; the deadbolt slides into place. Footfalls in the foyer.  One. Two. Three. Four.

“You ought to have turned on a light, Sherlock.”

Oak moss and vetiver. Comfort.

_Mycroft is ten, and he is already Sherlock’s archenemy. Mycroft is ten, and he is Sherlock’s greatest silent ally._

“Tempted?” Mycroft asks. He touches the wall panel; the chandelier glows to life.

Mycroft stands in the open doorway, overcoat unbuttoned but gloves still on, and briefcase dangling from one hand. Sherlock looks up at him: _greenbluegrey_ eyes that ask for something-permission, attention, pleasure? -just out of reach. “Yes,” he says.

They look down at the desk. That lighter has a mate, a pack of cigarettes meant for it, and they both know that the night will end with nicotine staining their fingers. Mycroft abides this addiction. There have been worse. “Enabler,” Sherlock says. His voice is already sharp, disdainful.

Mycroft nods, stepping fully into his study. “What is it, Sherlock?” He tilts his wrist to check his watch-expensive and antique-though they both know what time it is. 2:58.

“You took your time. I’ve been waiting.”

“Not more than a quarter of an hour.”

“How long, exactly?” Sherlock asks. He never tires of forcing Mycroft into contest of their cleverness.

Mycroft taps his index finger against the top of his umbrella. His eyes flick around the room, to Sherlock’s hands on his desk, the set of his jaw, the heightened color in his cheeks, to the window and the noise of the sirens several kilometers in the distance, the slant of the moonlight across the carpet. “Thirteen minutes,” he says.

Sherlock frowns and then catches sight of the newspaper under Mycroft’s arm. “I told Lestrade ages ago they weren’t suicides.”

Mycroft sighs. “You’ve caused me a great deal of paperwork and a favor too many.” Slowly, he takes off his coat and gloves, laying them neatly on the chair opposite Sherlock. “Are you bored already?” His tone is weary and he looks at Sherlock with a combination of exasperation and caution that would shame most men. He would do well to turn Sherlock away tonight.

“Don’t be obtuse. You know I am.” He slides his hand to the drawer handle, pulls it open, and holds the lighter up for Mycroft to see.

“I am boring Sherlock, remember? And certainly at this hour I won’t entertain you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock manages to make it sound like a suggestion, like he doesn’t quite believe that Mycroft can’t pull a rabbit out of a hat.

“Sherlock _._ ” Mycroft is forever warning Sherlock. Sherlock is forever ignoring him, forging ahead with such bravado, perhaps confident that Mycroft will always be there. He takes a deep breath. After a moment he begins again, “Dr. Watson?”

Sherlock’s head tilts to the side. He sees something; he’ll identify it soon enough. “What about John?”

“Goodness Sherlock, he killed a man for you. How is he?”

“He’s a much more effective bodyguard than you have ever been.”

The look he gives Sherlock is withering. He sits heavily on the sofa, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “The tremor hasn’t returned?”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice is nearer now. Beside him the cushion dips with his weight.

“Is he eating?”

“With gusto, as usual.”

He opens his eyes and Sherlock is watching him, attempting (failing) to read his features. “His sleep patterns?”

“I left him asleep on the sofa.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose; Mycroft can almost see the wheels turning as he strives to be accurate. “Improved, I would say.” He spreads his arm along the back of the sofa so that his fingertips rest against the side of Mycroft’s neck. It is late and Sherlock has chosen tenderness over venom; but, Sherlock is predictable and when he speaks again there is a mephitic ring to his tone. “Are you worried?”

Mycroft turns his head and they watch each other coolly for a moment. “Do I have reason to be?

“About him or me?” Sherlock smiles nastily. It is the most self-restraint he has shown all evening. His eyes settle on Mycroft with the same decisiveness he uses when running an experiment. Finally he stands, tucks the lighter into his shirt pocket and steps towards the door. “I haven’t come to talk about John,” he says.

“No.” Mycroft stands too; his back is stiff and he feels old next to Sherlock. “You’ve come to be entertained,” he says, “despite the inconvenience to me.”  Sherlock doesn’t meet his eyes but he steps closer. “I am not inclined to reward you,” Mycroft says.  

“But you will.” Sherlock takes another step. His smile is dark and hollow.  

“Sherlock-”

“What now?”

He holds Sherlock’s gaze: five shades of blue, three shades of green, and two shades of grey.  “What were you thinking?” He asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He backtracks without missing a beat. “And, you could do with the exercise.” He steps away and opens the door; beyond him the foyer is covered in pale moonlight and oblong shadows. Sherlock’s is a narrow dark splotch on the marble floor.

“Vinegar is terrible foreplay, Sherlock.”

They are halfway up the stairs when Sherlock responds; his is voice low and cutting. “Next time would you prefer an éclair?” A hand slips inside of his waistcoat patting his stomach twice. “I could feed it to you after I suck you off.”

“Lovely.”

“See there, honey is no help either.” Sherlock smirks at him as they pass into Mycroft’s bedroom. He is like a child who’s been unexpectedly clever; but Sherlock is always clever, and never tactful.

Sherlock is fifteen for a moment; selfish and baiting Mycroft until they are both against the kitchen wall and Mycroft refuses to offer anything more than passive participation.

He has time to turn on one lamp before Sherlock is dragging them together by their hips, kissing and nipping at his jawline. He turns his head away. “Do not leave a mark.”

Sherlock snorts; his look is put upon. “A bit embarrassing?”

“I’m sure you can’t relate.”

Sherlock’s hands tighten on his waist; he manages to navigate layers of fabric until he can caress bare skin. His head falls forward and he kisses Sherlock quickly, fiercely. Their hips bump together again, cotton and thighs sliding against each other.

Sherlock undresses him with efficient kind movements. This is just another calculation in their bargain. Sherlock makes it difficult to feel angry or guilty. He’s a path of destruction a mile wide and he’s a quiet moment. He is Mycroft’s worst, most unfathomable addiction.

“You should be thanking me,” Sherlock says. His hands skitter over Mycroft’s skin, up his sides, under his arms and behind his back to cup his shoulder blades. Sherlock’s gentleness is misplaced. He does not feel his body is worth coveting, not at all like Sherlock’s whose body is skin and bones and beauty. He shifts uncomfortably under Sherlock’s hand though Sherlock will not let him pull away completely.

Mycroft sighs into his neck. “I would thank you to let me go to bed.”

Sherlock’s hands slip down his back, pausing on the waistband of his trousers. Around them is a pile of his clothes, discarded carelessly because Sherlock thinks it irritates him. “You may thank me when you come in bed.” His smile is lewd, startlingly unlike Sherlock, but not unpleasant.

“Trite,” he says. His breath hitches when Sherlock tugs his trousers and pants down, following his hands with his mouth.

Sherlock nudges his thighs apart, sucking insistently at a spot just below his navel. He wraps a hand in Sherlock’s dark curls and pulls him up until their mouths are almost level and he can press his thigh into Sherlock’s erection.

Sherlock makes a low keening noise in his throat riding his leg with desperation. Though, it has been less than a fortnight since their last encounter. He looks ready to come undone.  “Off,” Sherlock says. He is gasping and his hips never quite still. He pushes Mycroft away slowly, like it pains him to show an ounce of self-control. He strips quickly, revealing long lines and pale skin. Mycroft cannot help but think that he is a bad reflection of his brother.

Sherlock is perfectly aware of his allure; he has known since he was seven and school girls invited him to play dates, their bustling mum’s smiling at him like he was porcelain; he has known since he was fifteen, venal and petulant, and persuading boy and girls to come to him on their knees. Sherlock flirts with intent to manipulate. The motility of his hands across skin; the slip-slide of sweat between bodies; the warmth of lips and escaping breath, it is all skillfully done and Mycroft’s forbearance has long since eroded. It didn’t begin this way but he has yielded to it nevertheless, hoping that he is not Sherlock’s worst addiction yet.

They fall into bed with Sherlock on top. He is always heavier than Mycroft expects, solid in a way that has nothing to do with being overweight.

“Lubricant,” Mycroft says. He spreads his legs, arching his hips gently into Sherlock’s erection. Their movements are all too familiar, tainted, and gratifying in equal measure. Sherlock is out of his control- loathed, as Mycroft is to admit it- like a wild graceful animal, humming with energy that cannot be contained. Here, pressed together and removed from their respective worlds, he can briefly capture Sherlock. He holds himself still as Sherlock traces a finger around his entrance.

“Breathe, Mycroft.” Sherlock smirks into his chest. Another victory, another point for Sherlock; he has never quite been a willingly participate but losing his control is never so pleasurable as when Sherlock coaxes it- ever so artfully- from him. 

“It’s very late, Sherlock.” Still, he closes his eyes and finally does breathe.

“Impatient?” Mycroft groans when a second finger enters him. He feels a tug in the pit of his stomach, the faintest stirrings of impending irresistible arousal. “And lazy,” Sherlock says, “You’ve let me do all the work.” He pats Mycroft’s thigh.

“Ah-ah. You never have liked to work for your pleasure.”

“Neither have you.” Sherlock thrust his fingers, now up to three, in time with each word, deliberately brushing his prostate. He jumps and his body bows into Sherlock’s hand like he is a live wire, though surely his brother has enough electricity running through him to power them both.

Mycroft groans. “Let me at least-” He shifts to roll over.

“No.”

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock is already withdrawing his fingers, moving up Mycroft’s body and pressing against him like they are schoolboys desperate for a quick tumble. He takes a shuddering breath as Sherlock pushes into him; he barely has a moment to adjust. Sherlock’s hands push his knees apart and there is a distinct lack of care mixed with expectancy.

He opens his eyes to look up at Sherlock. His face is tight and still, always so stubborn. They both are. Mycroft is no more than half-erect but Sherlock’s need is invigorating. His hands trace along smooth skin and up into Sherlock’s wild curls.

“Wider.” Sherlock presses a hand into Mycroft’s inner thigh, stretching him to the brink of discomfort.

Sherlock’s face is buried in his shoulder sucking a bruise into the soft skin of his collarbone and Mycroft is left inhaling his hair.  He cannot see Mycroft’s agitation nor would he care. He is always so singularly driven, and sex, Mycroft knows, is no exception.

“Sherlock.” His tone is pointed, raspy with fatigue and desire. “At-”

Sherlock stops him with a kiss; his tongue moves with the same force and determination that he uses to fuck Mycroft. One hand reaches between their bodies, sliding over his hipbones and down beneath his balls. It’s a selfish gesture, more for Sherlock’s benefit than his.

Sherlock pulls people apart with his curiosity, and Mycroft has been under his microscope for so many years he hardly remembers a time without Sherlock. His mind cannot be idle even here, even now.

Mycroft tightens his hand in Sherlock’s hair, twisting his head to the side. He presses his lips to Sherlock’s neck, gently at first. He smells like curry and soap and then there is something mysterious and cheap, his new flat mate inevitably.  Sherlock’s breath catches; his thrusts falter. Mycroft nips twice quickly and it is enough for Sherlock to move sharply inside of him, his rhythm entirely lost now.

“N-no marks,” Sherlock says.

He smiles against Sherlock’s neck, much as he would like revenge for the numerous times Sherlock has broken their rules, Mycroft never leaves a mark.  Instead he pushes up, lets his hand find Sherlock’s on his thigh. They have the same long slim fingers, but Sherlock’s hands are those of a scientist; always faintly stained or burned. His bear a permanent bruise along the side of his right middle finger: a bureaucrat’s hand. He twists their fingers together, pressing hard into the delicate palm of Sherlock’s hand.

“My-” Sherlock’s breath is just a pant in his ear, hard and delightful. “Bastard.”

He laughs deeply despite Sherlock’s indignation. He can see Sherlock losing focus, becoming increasingly desperate. He can feel the litheness of Sherlock’s body as he presses them inconceivably, unbearably closer.

He sweeps his hands down Sherlock’s back, over his arse, just barely resting his fingertips on his perineum and down to his balls. He digs the heel of his palm into them. Sherlock jolts shifting into him from both directions. He rolls his hand again, sighs into Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s beautiful and impossible and surely Mycroft has the better end of their deal.

Sherlock makes a hard sound deep in his throat. There is a moment of stillness, filled with warm light and the overwhelming scent of sex, just before Sherlock is gasping and enervative. He moves his hands to Sherlock’s hips, holds him tightly though there is no chance of him leaving. They have an instant of peace that Mycroft refuses to upset. He does not shift away from the wet spot under his thighs, or the body, which is growing heavy, on top of him. He is overly warm and still half-hard but falling asleep nonetheless.

Sherlock cannot be still. He lifts his head from Mycroft’s shoulder. His eyes are bright and impish.

“For the love of-”

He watches Sherlock slide down his body; it’s a languid fluid motion that takes his breath away, refusing to give it back until his is panting and Sherlock is smirking around his softening cock. “I’ve done all of your dirty work.”

He raises an eyebrow; the hand in Sherlock’s hair pulls him up so that he is spread across Mycroft’s chest. “I could have gone without,” he says. His voice is quiet and tender.

Sherlock demands his energy; he takes it as easily as he deduces the culprit of a triple homicide and Mycroft is helplessly subject to Sherlock’s whims. Though Sherlock would say it is the other way around; it is Mycroft who complicates things with his “silly social norms. Dull, as usual,” he would say. They have never been less complicated, not as Mycroft understands them; it has always been tentative bargains struck on sunny afternoons when Mycroft’s patience cannot withstand anymore. Their devil is in the details.

 “Liar,” Sherlock says. He reaches across Mycroft to the bedside table, to the forgotten lighter and the hidden cigarettes in the top drawer.

“Not in bed.”

“You mean not at all.”

He takes the lighter and tosses it towards the open bathroom door. Sherlock bounds after it like an eager dog. “I mean not in my bed,” he says. He has the urge to sink into the mattress and let Sherlock exhaust himself. He hears the click of the lighter and Sherlock’s sigh of pleasure when he inhales.

“I was in control,” Sherlock says. He takes three deep drags and settles on the bed by his hip, holding the cigarette over the wood floors rather than the stained sheets. His voice is rough and thoughtful. He taps his free hand against Mycroft’s thigh, impatient as always.

Mycroft sighs.  Sherlock looks exhausted; his back is hunched and his lips are pinched tight. “Perhaps.”

Another drag. He turns abruptly and exhales in Mycroft’s face. “John is not my babysitter.”

When the smoke clears he meets Sherlock’s eyes. “Although you need one.”

“What are you?” Sherlock looks mildly interested.

“Your brother.”

“My brother?” He takes a deep drag and outlines Mycroft’s body with his eyes. “You’re not leaving me, Mycroft.”

“Not at present.” He watches the line of Sherlock’s throat as he inhales again.

“Not ever.”

The certainty in Sherlock’s voice amazes him, leaves him breathless and uneasy. He touches Sherlock’s knee without meeting his eyes. He has nothing to give but this resigned victory.

“John’s not intimidated by you,” Sherlock says.

“And he craves danger. It is a perilous combination.”

“Adventure, not danger,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft purses his lips. “That is a clever distinction.”

“He’s like me,” Sherlock says.

“No, he’s not.” Mycroft runs his fingers through his hair. “Don’t let him fly too close to the sun.”

“How poetic.” Sherlock lets bits of ash fall across the sheet, just shy of Mycroft’s thigh. “He’s lasted this long.”

“Sherlock, he is not a toy.”

Sherlock looks at him briefly his eyes hard in the dim light. The cigarette is almost gone, dangling from his hand like an extension of his arm. “This is good for him.”

“And, it suits you as well.” He takes Sherlock’s wrist, angles the filter towards himself. It’s a bitter sharp taste that matches Sherlock’s personality exactly. “Are you being careful?” He asks. He does not try to keep the severity from his tone.

Sherlock snatches back the last of his cigarette but smokes it with his side pressed into Mycroft’s chest and stays when Mycroft traces the ridges of his spine, each bone a reminder that he isn’t keeping his promise to mummy.  “Don’t mother,” Sherlock says.

“Then behave, Sherlock.”

He is up and at the bathroom door before Mycroft can catch him. He grinds the cigarette butt into the marble basin and leans into the doorframe more comfortable in his nudity than Mycroft is in his best-made suit.  

“I am,” he says,” it’s you who’s done truly wicked things.” Sherlock looks him up and down. His gaze is just as pointed as his tone.

“Not tonight, Sherlock. We are long past this.”

Sherlock traces a finger along the doorframe, looking at Mycroft from under his lashes. Perfectly affected, calculated. “My guilty big brother.”

“That’s enough,” Mycroft says. He closes his eyes. He counts backwards by fours from 100, and he opens his eyes. “Are you staying?” He asks.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. He turns away and flicks on the bathroom light, leans heavily on the sink’s edge. Mycroft can see his profile, just a black silhouette. When he looks back Sherlock’s hand is resting on the side of his neck. The same spot that Mycroft’s lips worried at minutes ago. “Whatever would you have done?”

“Without you, dear?”

“Obviously.”

Mycroft touches the same spot on his own neck. A spike of pain jolts through him. There will be a mark. “A great many things I expect.” He bites his lip in mock concentration. “I owe Dr. Watson my thanks. As you said, he did a fine job tonight.”

“Don’t be dull.” Sherlock comes to stand above him. He runs one hand through his hair as if it is not already sticking out in every direction. The other hand settles over Mycroft’s on his neck. He is sure Sherlock can read his tender expression. It is too late for nuance and he has never had Sherlock’s energy. “You would be bored without me,” Sherlock says.

“Naturally,” he says. “I could only look forward to a life of gardening in the country with several-”

Sherlock tumbles into him. Mycroft grunts at the added weight. Sherlock’s hands are at his waist and his knees on either side of his thighs, in charge as ever though woefully unaware of it. They could begin again this time sans the hostility.  His _greenbluegrey_ eyes are all sharp curiosity and unhappy arousal. Sherlock’s intensity startles him each time. He speaks directly into Mycroft’s ear, swiping his tongue along the shell just to get a rise out of him. “Even your fantasies are boring, Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s cheek rests on the top of his head, his hips are moving slowly of their own accord it seems. “Sherlock,” he says, “if you would just be still for one moment.” But he knows it is impossible, improbable.

Sherlock’s breath hitches; his knees clutch painfully around Mycroft’s thighs but he does not push him away. “I’m cleverer than a cabbie.” Sherlock’s voice is a desperate whisper into his hair.

He moves a hand between them, handles Sherlock’s erection roughly until is a shuttering mess and utterly spent, again. He uses a corner of the sheet to clean their stomachs, and Sherlock kisses him insistently so that he can hardly see what he’s doing. Their lips rub in soft sweeping motions. There is something delicate in the way Sherlock seeks out his affection. Above all else, Mycroft wants to hold Sherlock here. Despite their disagreement and his fatigue, he wants to hold Sherlock’s focus for a moment more. God forbid he let his unease show.

He presses thumb and forefinger to Sherlock’s chin so that their eyes meet. “None of us are truly prepared to face our own mortality.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes like they are still young. “Oh, shut up.” He sprawls across the bed with arms and legs everywhere and somehow he keeps Mycroft under constant siege with his careful, demanding touches. “And do, please, get the lights.”

_Mycroft dreams of Sherlock imprisoned behind a wall of glass. His brother’s hair touches his shoulders in long endless curls.  His eyes are icy, uncharacteristically blue. Though the cell is full of shattered furniture a vase of yellow tulips remains intact, tucked into one pale corner. Mycroft throws his weight against the glass but it doesn’t give. He bloodies his hands clawing at the walls. Sherlock watches him impassively. Mycroft’s immaculate suit is ruined, stained with sweat and blood. Inside the glass, Sherlock has righted himself and the cell. The vase of yellow tulips is upended at Sherlock’s feet._

 

Mycroft’s alarm startles him awake, out of a dream he has had for years. He has long ago stopped calling it a nightmare. He gathers himself for a moment too long; Sherlock reaches over and silences his alarm. The clock cracks on the floor and Sherlock is wrapped around him again before the poor machine has fully died. He sleeps across Mycroft’s back, limbs clinging to him as if he is a great teddy. He counts to five and begins the laborious process of disentangling himself; for each arm he moves a leg hooks around him more firmly, for each foot tossed aside a hand tightens.

“Sherlock.” He traces a finger along his cheekbone, hardly a deterrent but the softness always surprises him, and he is in the mood to indulge if only for a moment. “Sherlock,” he says again, “let go.”

“Mm, after I’ve- just a minute more.” Sherlock’s entire body moves in one long thrust against him. He rocks indiscriminately into Mycroft’s hip; his thigh, his side. Sherlock’s stale breath catches heavily on their cheeks. His eyes flutter, unfocused and wide. Mycroft shuts his eyes and breathes into Sherlock’s hair.

They do not have quiet mornings. They have Sherlock’s boundless energy at a quarter to five in the morning; they have sarcasm in place of affection. They have Sherlock’s lean body pressed into his bulkier one, rutting carelessly, all angles and raw pleasure. Sherlock kisses Mycroft when he comes shifting a hand up his neck into his thin hair.

“Better hurry,” Sherlock says. He pats Mycroft’s hair. “All of this lazing about will make you late for the Indian Prime Minister.”  And then he is asleep, effete, and beautiful.

He showers and dresses quickly in the bathroom light. Sherlock is a mound beneath the thick blankets, with only the top of his head uncovered. His hair is wild, too long, and curly to ever look neat. He wonders if this new friend-Dr. Watson- will be able to rein his brother in; a haircut and a meal of more than tea and dry toast would do him good. Doubtful, though. He can already see that John Watson’s dominance extends no farther than their personal safety.

Quickly, gently, he touches Sherlock’s hair as he passes near the bed. He picks up the pack of cigarettes, returns them to the top drawer.

“Phone,” Sherlock says. His voice is muffled but a hand worms out hanging in the air until Mycroft places the device in it. “Tea?”

“Sherlock.” He sits on the edge of the bed; looping his tie around his neck. There is a welt, just above his collar, that pangs when he turns his head to the left. A foot presses into the small of his back. “Brat.”

When he leaves the room Sherlock trudges behind him wrapped, like an over grown child, in the duvet. The light from his phone guides them as he taps away. Mycroft’s phone sits on the kitchen island, the screen already aglow. He has five-missed text, all from Anthea and all relatedly minor incidents. Sherlock stands close enough to read each one, his cheek resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft says nothing, Heaven forbid he acknowledge this small intimacy.

“Tea,” Sherlock says again. “I have to be getting back.”

Back to what, Mycroft wonders? John Watson? Instead he says, “Sit down then.”

Sherlock sits to his right on the counter and there is just enough light from the overhead to watch him. His phone is beside him but he is fidgeting with the sugar container, spooning the sugar up, and letting it fall back from varying heights. “Orgasm has done wonders for you, Mycroft, not even a stern word for my appalling behavior.”

Mycroft looks up from his phone one hand reaching for two cups. “You’re old enough to know better, dear.”

“That has never stopped you.”

He sets down the cups, reaches over, and takes Sherlock’s wrist. Deliberately he settles Sherlock’s hands in his lap. “There now,” he says.

Sherlock’s face twists. He sneers like Mycroft has said something disgusting or been incredibly dull.  He turns away, rifles through the cabinets he can reach and finally finds something of interest. “Off your diet then?” He holds up the chocolate biscuits.

“A temporary lapse.” He frowns, a hand pressing into his temple. “Your fault.”

“Mine?” Sherlock asks. He takes the first cup of tea, holding it between both hands just under his nose.

“You know I worry.”

“You just want another excuse to spy on me.” Sherlock takes a sip of his tea scolding around his mouthful. “How many are there?

“Cameras?”

“Five? Six? The sitting room, kitchen foyer, across the street, the bedrooms?”

Mycroft refuses to confirm Sherlock’s suspicions. He sets his tea aside. He would have liked sugar but Sherlock is guarding it viciously. “They are for your safety.” Sherlock won’t meet his eyes. Something, pain, uneasiness, passes over his face. “You cannot out grow me, Sherlock,” he says. His tone is gentle and apologetic.

“Don’t be dull.” Sherlock curls deeper inside of the duvet turning his attention full force to pouting. “Take them out.” He considers for a beat. “At least from John’s room.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “The footage is archival only.”

“For my safety,” Sherlock says. He spits _safety_ out like it is poison.

“Yes.” Mycroft carefully smooths down the front of his waistcoat.

“I’ll be sure to tell Mummy that you’ve met your care quota this month.”

Mycroft blinks twice. Sherlock is still capable of surprising him, wounding him even. He is desperately close to sighing. “I do care, Sherlock.”

“I don’t need you, Mycroft.”

That is nonsense. Need and want are a fine line with Sherlock but there is no use arguing with him. Sherlock has never understood the breadth of Mycroft’s devotion. He mistakes Mycroft’s interference for meddlesome spying and his aloofness for lack of feeling. He levels a gaze a Sherlock and whatever it is Sherlock reads on his face makes him wince.

Mycroft could be twenty-two again, just out of university and coming home every weekend, desperately making any and every attempt to rein in Sherlock. It seems he won the battle but lost the war. They had (have) a very reasonable civilized agreement, with very unreasonable sordid terms.

Sherlock downs the last of his tea and begins to methodically spoon sugar into the sink. “You health is paramount,” he says. The smirk he wears belays any hint of sincerity.

Mycroft looks at his phone again. Another text; the car is on its way. He doesn’t have to turn to see Sherlock watching him, reading the set of his shoulders and the slope of his cheek. “There are a few details,” he says.

“Not a long list, I hope?” Sherlock picks up his phone, pretends to be involved in a text.

The list is brief and Sherlock could deduce its entirety without another word from Mycroft. He leans around Sherlock and rinses the cup he has so haphazardly left on the counter. “How will you explain your meeting the driver?” Mycroft asks. “Gregory will have thorough questions.”

“Who?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He slips his hand under the duvet to grip Sherlock’s knee. His hand is there barely a moment before Sherlock spreads his legs, and makes a sound like a frustrated animal.

“What have you done with the pills?” Sherlock asks. He takes Mycroft’s wrist, the spoon forgotten along with his phone, guides their hands up the length of his thigh.

“They were confiscated. The lab analysis is in my coat pocket.”

“Ah-” Sherlock arches up into his hand.

“Is this all I’m good for?” Mycroft says.

 Sherlock hums. “It’s the only thing you’ve ever been good for.” He looks up at Mycroft, his _greeenbluegrey_ eyes mischievous and large. Mycroft can see that a part of Sherlock wants to go on goading him, riling him up so that Mycroft’s control shatters like glass on pavement.

Mycroft steps back to rolls up his shirtsleeves; the space between Sherlock’s legs is warm and sticky; he speaks quickly as he lets Sherlock move into his fist. Sherlock’s patience with him will be running out soon. “I will be keeping an eye on your solider,” he says. Sherlock’s fingers are digging into his forearm. When he looks down he sees a dot of blood.

“Of course.”  Sherlock says.

“His background check is-”

“Clean. Yes, yes. Uh-tighter, Christ.” Sherlock slides forward to the edge of the counter. One foot is hooked high on Mycroft’s thigh; the other is stretched down resting on his calf. His or Sherlock’s phone beeps.

“Mycroft,” he says. Sherlock’s voice is a low groan right into Mycroft’s neck.

He twist his hand, rubs his thumb along the slit until the annoyance -as if the practical matters are beneath him- slides from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock moves a hand up his chest and neck and into Mycroft’s hair.

“Darling boy,” Mycroft says.

“Quiet,” Sherlock says. He tightens his grip on Mycroft’s hand and then he is boneless and Mycroft is supporting them both.

Finally Sherlock’s head falls back against the cabinet door with a thud. His free hand reaches for his phone and he slants open one eye to check the screen. “Yours,” he says. Mycroft washes his hands; the wet sugar and cum are indistinguishable as they wash down the drain.

Sherlock stands on shaky legs. The duvet looks like a cape hanging from Sherlock’s shoulders. He intercepts Mycroft as he reaches for his tea and finishes the last swallow himself. He cannot fathom Sherlock’s energy

Mycroft’s phone chirps again. The driver knows better than to knock but Sherlock has taken enough of his time to say nothing of the files undoubtedly piled upon his desk. He looks up at Sherlock as he moves through the kitchen. “Shall I send a car to return you to Baker Street?”

“I’ll find my own way,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft leaves Sherlock in the kitchen to collects his pale brown great coat from the hall closet and his briefcase from the study. When he returns, Sherlock has hardly moved. “You oughtn’t keep Dr. Watson waiting. By all accounts he will go to the ends of the earth to find you.”

Sherlock spares him a glance. The stove overhead illuminates the right side of his face, and his blackberry cast an eerie glow across the lower half. He looks beautiful and he is impossible. “What would you know?”

He gives Sherlock the weariest look he can muster. His phone chirps from his pocket. Anthea. Time to say goodbye.

“And I will need your receipts for this month, dear?”

“I’m afraid I’ve overspent,” Sherlock says. He is not looking at Mycroft and he does not sound the least bit remorseful.

“Ever the same,” “Mycroft says.

They have been doing this for so long; push and pull; hide and seek; lost and found. Sherlock is holding his phone to his ear, frowning and drumming his fingers on the counter top. Mycroft steps towards him quickly, kisses his forehead, and ignores Sherlock’s scold. “Sentimental,” Sherlock says. “The cameras as well. By this evening.”

_Sherlock is thirty-three, and he knows Mycroft better than anyone else._

He recognizes something in Mycroft, hidden under the perfect layers of his brother’s persona, some quality that has been absent for years. It is unexpected. The guilt is constant, persistent. He thinks back. The exact term escapes him now.

He is unbelievably slow-witted; Good lord, how can Mycroft stand it? It is just on the edge of his memory. They’ve been here before, he is sure of that. Mycroft’s back is to him. His hand is on the on the doorknob. His shoulders are rigid; his hands are opened, fingers parallel with his leg. Overly affectionate.  Is it a result of his brush with death? Unlikely.  He could ask. No.

Excessive mothering. Mundane inquiries. Notes of hysteria in the tone of voice. Distracted. His tie is slightly crooked, though the sugar container is back in its proper place. Extra towels laid out for him.

Mycroft looks over his shoulder again. Nervousness.

What is the word?

There is a darkening mark just above his collar. It is bright on Mycroft’s pale skin. Their gazes are level. Mycroft sees something in his eyes; his hand twitches and Sherlock moves away but there is no time to conceal his confusion.  Sherlock knows Mycroft can read everything in his face. Pity; he had been winning all morning.

Sherlock stands at the door until his phone chirps from the kitchen. Twenty-two seconds between the door closing and the text.

 **MH** : The word is jealousy.

 **SH** : Unthinkable. Predictable. Dull, brother dear.  

 **MH** : This is hardly the first time.

He remembers the colors of those years-troubled difficult years, so named by his psychotherapist. Cream, grey, navy for Mycroft. Vivid oranges, greens, and cerulean for Victor. For himself: deep purples, mustard yellow, and oxford blue on white. And red, always droplets of red. The faces and names, people and actions, are imprecise, partially discarded when he kicked cocaine. Sherlock retains fragments. The complete records may be found somewhere in Mycroft’s filing system; it is big enough to house both of their memories.  Ah. Sherlock shivers. The duvet is damp and smells of semen. He tugs it around himself.

 

Mycroft used to wash their linens. Honey. Lavender. It permeated the air. Mycroft’s hair was in his eyes. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. He refused to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He striped off his vest and made Sherlock take his trousers off. Everything went in the machine. Hide. Hide.  Hide the evidence.

It was best in the quiet kitchen. He was young, fifteen. He could go forever. He pressed a hand to Mycroft’s thigh. Rapid breathe. Poor diet. Lack of sleep.

Mycroft met his eyes. Steel blueto _greenbluegrey._ Sherlock won easily. His hands didn’t need to be coy. Whatever demons Mycroft had were his own. Mycroft

thought they were guilty of something; Sherlock disagreed. White sunlight in from the east. Mycroft’s chest pressed to his.

Oh yes. Hands and mouth and mild manners. They had a bargain.

 

He came too quickly that first time and many times after.  He pouted. He always coaxed Mycroft to begin again.

“We had a deal, Sherlock.” Not yet they didn’t. Obvious. Denial. Mycroft could barely keep his hands to himself. Sherlock got close. His trousers were still undone. He wasn’t wearing pants. He knew what Mycroft saw in him. He intended to exploit it.

Punishment, maybe. Sherlock touched himself. He moaned outrageously. Mycroft’s hand covered his mouth. Quiet. Footsteps on the landing. He held Mycroft’s waist. A distinct scent, attached to that moment forever: wood burning in the hearth. Winter comfort. Heady warm vetiver.

He persuaded Mycroft to suck his cock again. He wound his fingers through dark copper hair. He pulled hard enough for one of Mycroft’s hands to clutch painfully at his waist in warning. He groaned. He fucked Mycroft’s face because they had a deal and that was his end of it.

Mycroft’s mouth was red. He was the personification of unhappiness. His shoulders were slumped. His trousers were tented. Sherlock shifted his knee; ground it into Mycroft’s erection. The room smelled of them: sweets and musk.

At dinner he was well behaved. Their deal was two weeks. “It is not a negotiation,” Mycroft said.

Everything can be a negotiation.

Two weeks: Mycroft was soft in a pleasant way. It had to do with too much guilt. Consequence: too many sweets. Two weeks turned into two years. Sherlock went to university.

 

“This can’t go on,” Mycroft said. He was naked and panting. Sherlock was between his legs. The room was filled with sighs. “You haven’t kept your word.”

He pressed Mycroft’s arms above his head. There was nothing else he could say without perjuring himself. Mycroft didn’t object; he took his pleasure grudgingly though.

They shared a cigarette as Sherlock dressed. Mycroft’s guilt was tangible. They were bound, a package deal, joined by mind and, increasingly, body. Sherlock was content to let Mycroft handle both of their troubles. Cocaine made him fly. It made Sherlock almost as clever as his brother.

He took Mycroft’s hand. Up along the needle marks. Obvious, now. “We’re making a new deal.”

“No,” Mycroft said. Sherlock had not looked at his reflection for days. The same must have been true for Mycroft; he looked like a wraith.

“Are you afraid of me?” Sherlock asked. He leaned back against a wall. Powder coated every surface in a light film.  

“I am afraid for you.”

Sherlock jumped forward. He wove his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. He kissed Mycroft until he couldn’t breathe.

Mycroft took Sherlock’s face in his hands. “You owe me a semester of classes,” he said. He touched Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock knew Mycroft was defenseless.

It was a bad deal. Unfair, yes, and cruel.

Mycroft suffered: Weight loss. Pale(r) skin. More sweets.

On top of everything they learned a new word.

 

“Who is he?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock wound his way around Mycroft. “Who?” He held Mycroft’s hips. He left marks with this teeth and nails. He couldn’t see past Mycroft. Twenty questions had to wait.

“Please,” Mycroft said.

Mycroft was beneath him. Plaint. Pleading. Powerless. Sherlock forgot his manners; an orgasm ripped from him mid-flight. He dragged Mycroft with him. He could not be alone. He put his mouth on his neck and his hand on Mycroft’s cock. Up and down. Up and down. His grip was punishing. He couldn’t have left Mycroft behind.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was full of sorrow. Sherlock’s hand was sticky.

He smelled sweat and vetiver when he woke. Mycroft’s cheek had a pink handprint on it. There was dried blood at the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock looked down at his hand; it ached and he couldn’t remember why.

“Tell me, darling boy. “ Mycroft spoke to him softly; he never opened his eyes.

Afternoon changed to evening. Mycroft stayed. The pink handprint turned to a deep blue. He was flightless, but not alone. “I won’t tell you about him,” he said.

Sherlock kissed Mycroft’s cheek until he yielded to him a second time.

 

He broke into Mycroft’s flat. Average. Cream walls. Sleek appliances.  Typical.

He invaded Mycroft’s bed. He slid his fingers between Mycroft’s thighs; he greedily sought warmth.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

“Obvious,” he said.

Mycroft turned toward him. They were outlines in the moonlight. “Where have you deposited, Mr. Trevor? Mycroft asked. His voice was worn-out. The shadows made him look twice his age.

He griped Mycroft’s wrist. 75 BPM. Slightly elevated.

His hands and toes were warm where they press into Mycroft’s skin. He stilled, held his breath close to Mycroft’s cheek. The silence stretched, until Sherlock’s hand gripped Mycroft’s knee hard and forcibly dragged it over his hip. The warmth spread; radiated from the friction created by skin on skin, cock on cock.

Mycroft tried to leave him when the sun rose. Sherlock couldn’t allow that. He captured Mycroft in the front hall, turned it into a bedroom. The door was their bed, the side table Mycroft’s desk. The chaos built around them. Their laundry piled in the corners; glasses lined the baseboards. Mycroft negotiated their deal with Sherlock’s mouth and hands assailing him. He worked, showered, and ate with Sherlock’s body molded to his own.

“I can’t stay with you,” Mycroft said. He stood above Sherlock with his hands pressed into the small of his back.

“New job, long hours, yes, yes.” He spread his legs. Mycroft’s gazed followed the movement of his legs like a Palovian dog.

They began again.

Much later, Mycroft’s voice was a whisper; Sherlock will defeat him yet. “What will I do with you?” Mycroft asked.

He snorted. Sherlock could see everything in his few fleeting moments of flight. Surely, Mycroft, who was better and faster, needed no answers from him.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

“Don’t bother me now,” Sherlock said. He used Mycroft’s thigh as a pillow. He counted the freckles that spread down his brother’s shins.

 

There were seven prolonged absences. Victor filled three of them. All of them were filled with cocaine.

“Don’t break your word,” Sherlock said when Mycroft found him.

Mycroft never found him quickly enough. Once or twice, occasionally, Mycroft didn’t want to find him at all. Mycroft pulled Sherlock to him.

Thin shoulders. Dry mouth.

“Where have you been?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft hesitated; he was ashamed of his absence. He was guilty of leaving Sherlock to his own devices. Mycroft’s fingernails were well cared for; his skin smelled of a spicy soap; his hair curled over his ears in a fashionable style. He had a lover somewhere. Someone else to occupy his time. Someone who was ostensibly not him. But a deal was a deal. When Sherlock ran, Mycroft was obliged to come after him.

“Behave, Sherlock.” Mycroft kissed him.

His lips were soft. Sherlock’s mind moved lightening quick. They were alone in a dingy flat. He’d let himself go. Cocaine rimmed his nose; Mycroft brushed it away carefully.

Sherlock flew; he buried himself in Mycroft’s body. Thin. Weary. Repentant?

Afterwards he cleaned his flat from top to bottom. Sex for good behavior. Mycroft slept on stained sheets until Sherlock ripped them out from under him. Honey Lavender. Shirtsleeves up, trousers off.

**SH:** This is different.

 **MH:** We are the same people.

He is still an addict. They are still brothers. He still freely gives his consent. They still belong to each other.

The bedside table is locked. No key. Screwdriver? Too messy. Mycroft’s dark blue coat is hanging over the chair in his office. The pockets have two gloves and a scarf tucked into them. The inside pockets are more promising. One cigarette-smug bastard-seven sheets of paper. Lab report. Still no lighter. Gas stove, viable.

The lab report tells him nothing. The pills were unremarkable, and unmarked. Pharmaceutical grade. Imported. Standard for hospitals and testing facilities. Obvious.

Cocaine is always in the back of his mind but he has Mycroft. Cigarettes on occasion, and there will always be crime.These are better addictions, acceptable vices. Flying is temporary now. Hard won. Eighteen years. The nature of the bargain has changed, slightly. Sherlock has more control; the rewards are less reluctantly given.

Guilt free.  Impulsive. Charming. Manipulative. Sociopath? Sherlock can be typed, classified.

Empathy. Guilt. Manipulative. Perpetual calm. Mycroft is an aberration.

His cigarette burns a hole in the duvet. His phone chirps. There is always something with Mycroft.

Four beeps. John. John. John. Mycroft.

 **MH** : Behave, Sherlock.

Sentiment abounds. Mycroft is ever trying to please (appease) him. Two weeks turns into two years turns into eighteen and counting. Mycroft is supposed to be the smart one.

_Mycroft is seven; Sherlock is here, and he never wants to be alone again._

Mycroft is the smart one; he is the guilty one; he is the protector; he is the one who does not delete anything. He bolds, highlights, and compartmentalizes like the government watchman that he is.

At the door, he cannot help but look back at Sherlock. The confusion on his brother’s face does not go unnoticed. Sherlock is closer now than he had been last night.

He closes the door on their tempestuous morning. Sherlock’s mind is organized chaos. He could spend years looking for a word, guided only by a half memory and the knowledge that his brother knows something that he does not. Mycroft helps him along. That is what brothers are for after all. _Jealousy._

In all their years, some words do not roll off the tongue as well as others. He imagines Sherlock’s face, twisted and hard, unspeakably remote. Now that Sherlock knows he won’t be able to stave off the old memories. Mycroft remembers their past as being riddled with hard lessons and vicious arguments. He remembers that Sherlock was always testing him; but, Mycroft’s love has no conditions; it cannot be dampened by jealousy and he is not afflicted with doubt. Guilt yes, but never doubt.

 **SH:** This is different.

Perhaps something is different, but they, he and Sherlock, are the same people, truly, at the core of their beings; there have been no fundamental changes in them for fifteen years. Not since Victor and Cambridge and those disastrous years in which Sherlock was both lost and unattainable to him. He says as much to Sherlock. God help them.

Sherlock means that John is different. He is a new variable in a broken equation. If Victor was callous and excitable, John is steady, sure of himself, and his abilities. John is a companion worthy of Sherlock, and it breaks Mycroft’s heart. Sherlock is integral to him; he is Mycroft’s routine; his constant burden until guilt overcomes him or Sherlock grows tired of his body and bored of his mind.

 

Mycroft never said yes; he never said no. He was twenty-two years old, too old for Sherlock. Sherlock was fifteen and determined to do unspeakable things to (with) him. They struck their first bargain in the narrow space of the kitchen pantry. They formally sealed it with Sherlock’s hands in his hair as Mycroft knelt before him. Sherlock’s face was alight with victory; even orgasm did not tame him. The terms forever remained unclear, but Mycroft always paid with his body and Sherlock rarely kept his end of the deal. Eighteen years should have been two seconds. That is all it would have taken to push Sherlock away.  

 

Mycroft knows that at this precise moment Sherlock is searching for a substitute lighter. It is possible that the next time he sees the lab report, dutifully left for Sherlock, it will have burn holes in it. It is likely there will be ash scattered across the floor of his study. He does hope Sherlock has remembered to turn off the stove after he has incautiously lit his cigarette.

Vauxhall is in sight. He relocates thoughts concerning Sherlock to a bottom corner of his mind. Today, it seems there will be no immediate danger. The car door opens and Anthea is to his right; there are three folders under her arm but she does not look up from her phone as they walk. Her expression, as she text, tells him two of the three involve _M._

Sentiment abounds.

For the sake of his nerves (sentiment) he sends one final text. **MH** : Behave, Sherlock.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
